


Someplace Else, Searching for You

by Tinq



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Comfort, Cuddling, Cute, Dreams, Fluff, Friends to Lovers, Hurt, M/M, Nightmares
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-30
Updated: 2014-03-30
Packaged: 2018-01-17 15:26:35
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,243
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1392727
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tinq/pseuds/Tinq
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock's been wondering why John has been acting so strange. He seems to have a cold, but hasn't shown any signs of sickness, not to mention the fact Sherlock can't remember that last time he slept.</p><p>In order to find out what's going on, Sherlock needs to conduct an experiment... to find out the truth that brings the two closer together.</p><p>Johnlock Oneshot</p>
            </blockquote>





	Someplace Else, Searching for You

    Sherlock awoke, rubbing his eyes, his mouth in a straight line. Already the smell of tea in the kitchen had wafted into his room, yet Sherlock's stomach was too trained against hunger - or thirst, for that matter - to want any.

    Instead he glanced at the clock on his bedside table.  _7:34._ It was exceptionally early for Sherlock to be awake - and even earlier for someone to already be up making tea. Could it be Mrs. Hudson? Sherlock doubted it, highly suspecting it was now John in the kitchen.

     _John._ Sherlock's heart skipped a beat, but his mind passed right over it. When was the last time Sherlock had even seen John sleep? Surely had slept last night... right? His curiosity too much of a challenge to contain, Sherlock leapt out of bed, not caring that the sheets fell right on the floor. Armed only in his sweatpants, t-shirt, and silky blue robe, Sherlock made his way into the kitchen.

    Just as he had suspected, John was lazing his way through the kitchen, fumbling with his coffee mug, each footstep landing with a lazy  _plop._ Crescent moons had formed under his eyes, and it seemed John didn't care that his eyelids were drooping. In fact, it was more like he was not even aware.

    Sherlock knew what sleep deprivation looked like - all too often would the high of the chase keep him up for even a week, before John would blatantly insist on eating and going to bed. Not too many cases had Sherlock and John had in the past few weeks - Sherlock had slept comfortably most nights, eating little but more than usual. On the other hand, Sherlock could not remember for the life of him the last time John had slept.

    "Morning, John." He stated, letting the words hang in the air. John mumbled a gruff 'h'lo' and sat down at the cluttered table with a grunt. "John, it's my job as a flatmate to insist you tell me if you're not feeling well. You look like hell." Sherlock was happy to slew out insults anytime, with the air one talking about the weather, but with John it brought a pang to his chest that he couldn't be bothered to ponder.

    "Why, thanks, Sherlock." The tall detective blinked at John's hiss of a reply. "Just... just go out for the day. I need some time for myself, alright?" Sherlock's keen green eyes saw right through this bluff. Any ordinary human would, but it took the mind of an experienced scientist to make an experiment out of it.

 

\---

    Sometime later, John finished his long tea, Sherlock keeping a sharp eye on him but looking away each time the doctor noticed, John sat up with a huff and tramped off to the bathroom. He mumbled something that sounded much like 'shower' under his breath.

    Sherlock took this short amount of time to scratch out a quick note to leave on the table.

 

_John,_

_I'll be back in a few hours, Mycroft needed my help with something._

_SH_

    Satisfied with his words, Sherlock slipped quietly into his room, locking the door behind him just as the shower stuttered off. A few moments later, Sherlock heard John's heavy footsteps stumbling into the kitchen, pausing, as presumably John's tired eyes ready the note.

    "Thank God, he's finally gone..." Even through the door, Sherlock was slightly hurt by John's words. Nevertheless, he continued listening avidly, as John - or so Sherlock guessed - stretched, yawned, and - unexpectedly - tramped up the stairs. 

    Sherlock stood at his door, motionless, listening for any signs of John coming back downstairs. After what must have been about ten minutes, Sherlock quietly crept out into the hallway, snaking past the bathroom and into the kitchen. He peered cautiously around the corner, and let out a sigh as he found the room to be empty. Perhaps John just needed some quiet? Still slightly hurt, Sherlock sat down on the couch, now unsure of what to do.

    He could always go out - or would the sounds of him leaving wake the presumably sleeping John? Sherlock didn't bother consider flipping through the telly or playing his violin, all of which would have John downstairs and bewildered at Sherlock's sudden appearance in an instant.

    Just as Sherlock was beginning to think leaving, maybe asking Lestrade for a case, would be the best thing to do, a dull thud followed by a loudish moan echoed down the steps. Sherlock froze. Was John being attacked? Had someone snuck in? Or maybe had he just fallen off the bed? Still slightly fazed, Sherlock pinned it on the latter until a loud yell widened Sherlock's eyes. Something was definitely up.

    Sherlock approached the stairs carefully, now beginning to think he really should go up and see if John was alright. Another yell, this time of a single world, brought Sherlock rocking back into reality.

    "Sherlock!" John's cry was so desperate, so tired, so in pain, that at once Sherlock shot halfway up the steps, heart pounding unsually fast, now completely unsure of what to do. Sherlock had never before taken pride in being an unfeeling man, but now, with feelings of concern flooding his veins, Sherlock would have preferred it.

     The consulting detective likely would have stayed at that midlanding, frozen in thought, if again John's yelling had not pierced the air.

     "Sherlock! No, no, he's mine, he's mine, my Sherlock, let him  _go!_ " The pain and anguish shot Sherlock up the last bit of stars like a catapult, coming to stand quietly outside the door. What was happening? Sherlock was - to John, anyway - not even home! No reasonable explanation pushed it's way to the front of Sherlock's mind, so instead he pushed up the door, now curious and concerned.

    John lay on his bed, his limbs tangled in a mountain of sheets and blankets, breathing heavily with sweat pouring off his body. Even in the cold room, John looked too warm, too pale.

    Forgetting to think, Sherlock was at John's bed in two quick strides.

    "John. John." The urgency in his voice, apparently, only made the nightmare - which was now evident to be the cause of John's yelling - worse.

    "No! Sherlock, no, not him, Sherlock, you're mine, forever, my love... Sherlock..." A blush crept up to Sherlock's cheeks. Had John just said... that he loved Sherlock? Of course not! Sherlock had heard it a million times already - John was a straight man. But still, Sherlock's heartbeat increased and his mind cleared of all things except for one.  _John._

    Gingerly, Sherlock sat down on the bed, reaching for John's sweaty palm. Sherlock held the hand in his own, trying to stop the tremours and still let John sleep. Nonetheless, the nightmare kept John in a tight grip.

    "No, no, he's... not... not supposed to be here.... not here... not with the guns... please.... not...." John trailed off a bit as Sherlock, his mind now only on comforting John, curled into the sliver of the bed not currently occupied by John. "...not Sherlock." With one last word, Sherlock wrapped a pale arm around John's heaving chest and John's eyes shot open. He sat up like a shot, his eyes glassy and his breathing completely abnormal.

    "Breathe, John, breathe..." Sherlock barely noticed when he rested his chin on John's shoulder, nor when he reached a hand around John's shaking back - but the doctor most certainly did. A bushel of red rushed up the John's ears and cheeks, and the words came spilling out of him as he untangled himself from Sherlock.

    "Christ, Sherlock, I'm sorry, I didn't mean... I'm sorry, that... that was, I'm sorry, I..." John shot out of the bed like a bullet, out the door, his words as jumbled as the thoughts in his head. John flew down the steps, throwing on his coat and bounding out the front door, leaving Sherlock to go over what had just happened.

 

\---

     After a few hours of mixed thoughts, screeching violin playing, and a broken cup of tea, Sherlock had finally settled for simply lying on the couch and escaping to his mind palace. It took a few hours, though, to get to such a decision, and thus as soon as Sherlock entered the front door opened quietly and shut just as so.

    Sherlock could practically hear John hesitating at the bottom of the steps. He was evidently choosing a way to approach what had happened, and the process he chose did not involve the sitting down and explaining side of things. Instead, John walked nervously up the steps, keeping his eyes to the floor, ignoring Sherlock's presence entirely, and instead walking up the second flight of stairs and slamming his own door shut behind him.

    Sherlock sighed dramatically. Regrettably, he'd have to do this the hard way. To go to John himself.

    Cautiously Sherlock made his way back up to John's door, to which he delivered three - what he hoped to be - quite, calm knocks.

    "Look, Sherlock, I already said sorry, just get off my case, will you?" Sherlock took a miniature step backwards at the open hostility in John's words. The mild doctor never, ever let venom seep into his voice, but even so if Sherlock's experiments got particularly annoying Sherlock didn't mind a bit if he had a slight row. This, though, was a completely different kind of anger.

    "John. Calm down." Sherlock willed his voice to calm John down. "I just want to talk, that's all, John. May I come in?" Hearing no reply, Sherlock turned the knob and stepped inside. John sat on the edge of his bed, cheeks still beet red and his eyes a mix of embarrassment, guilt, fear, and shame. Is this really how John felt about being around Sherlock? Or had it been the nightmare? Sherlock willed it to be the latter.

    "Sherlock, just stop.  _Stop._ Just do the world and me a favor and pretend nothing happened." He paused a moment, swallowing. "Sherlock. Please." Sherlock heard the different between the anger in his first words and the sorrow in the second. In one quick movement, Sherlock moved over to the bed and sat down as close as he could to John. Which, of course, meant arms, shoulders, and legs touching.

    To Sherlock's sorrow, though the built army doctor moved slightly in the opposite direction, obviously angry.

    "You know what, Sherlock, fine. If you're going to be like this,  _fine._ Yes, I have nightmares. Shut up, don't you dare laugh." John's voice neared a yell. "Yes, I talk in my sleep, okay, I get it. I haven't a clue what you heard, Sherlock, but you'd better damn pretend you didn't hear it."

    Sherlock was appalled. Why was John being so defensive? It had just been a nightmare, after all... yet something in his chest led Sherlock to suspect it was more than just a nightmare troubling John.

    In the most soothing voice he could muster, Sherlock said, "John, you know me. I would never laugh. It was just a bad dream, just a nightmare. And I'm sorry that I startled you. I'm sorry if I scared you, and I'm just... sorry. It was weird, I know. But you seemed so scared, John, so terrified..." Sherlock had not been planning to say anything more, but the feelings just kept spilling out of him. Maybe too  _many_ feelings. "I know you just wanted to sleep, I know how terrible nightmares can be, and I'm sorry I made it so awkward, you just seemed so tired and I stayed instead of leaving and I was curious and scared for you and when I heard you yell I came up and when I heard you say my name and that-"

    John and Sherlock froze at the exact same time. Sherlock had gone too far. Said too much. Spilled too much to the disgruntled John, whose leg was throbbing and left hand shaking.

    "W-what... did I say..." Fear almost stopped John from asking but he managed to get the words at. Sherlock was at a loss. What was there to say, after all, other than the truth.

    "You, uh... you said not... not Sherlock and um.... not  _my_ Sherlock and that... I wasn't supposed to be there and, uh..." Sherlock sucked in a breath, terrified. "...and that you loved me." Though Sherlock had barely whispered the words John was close enough to hear.

     John would have reddened significantly at the cheeks, stammered a heavy apology towards Sherlock, and fled from the scene, possibly drinking himself dry at a bar if Sherlock's lips had not sunk into his.

    At first, all that registered in John's mind was shock.  _...what?_   What was happening? Was he kissing back? Soon enough the uncertain thoughts of both the detective and the doctor turned to a warmth that surged through both of their chests. Somehow, no matter how odd it was, the kiss felt right.

 

\---

    Three months later, in the dead of night, John's fists clenched tight and his eyes squeezed shut in pain.

    "She...Sherl... Sherlock..." The words echoed out into the room. If John had begun to to yell, Sherlock would have run in and kissed John, his neck, his head, his face, holding him in his pale arms until he woke up, tired yet relieved. But on this night, on the first night, already was the pale arm draped over John. All that was left for Sherlock to do was draw John closer.

 

_**Finis** _

 


End file.
